Page 4 of The King’s Man #5

I let out a quiet sigh of relief and perch beside him.

My new voice is steady, but my hand trembles as I take his wrist and press to read his pulse.

Without magic, it takes longer. There’s no light to guide me, no spell to magnify sensation.

Just pressure, timing, instinct. I’ve studied hard to feel what I used to conjure. And I use it all now.

His pulse flutters, irregular. Too soft. A whisper beneath bruised skin.

I take out a vial from my supplies and tell him to drink it all. He sniffs it, side-eyes me, and knocks it back with a wince.

“And this one.” I hand over the other.

His brow furrows warily, and I help him uncork it. “Trust me.”

He grunts, but his shoulders drop slightly, and he pulls out a pill. A vein at his temple flickers as he swallows. “What do I call you?”

I pack the vial, cursing myself for not anticipating this.

Quin’s stare begins to narrow, and I blurt the first name that comes to my mind. “Haldr.” I wince. “I’m healer Haldr.”

He frowns at this, and I can’t help but hope that flash in his gaze is disappointment. I clear my throat and stand. “Lie on your stomach.”

I help him swivel and lower himself, feeling the twitches of pain under my fingers at each shift. I use cool water with solispine to carefully wipe away the dried blood around these angry crisscrossed welts. Grit loosens and peels away, but under it the skin is raw and inflamed.

With Quin’s back to me, I lift my veil so I can see better. He doesn’t turn. But a muscle in his neck tenses, as if he feels the shift in the air between us. I unravel my toolkit, take out one of the thin knives my aunt gifted me, and swallow hard.

“I have to cut away bad flesh. Bite down on—”

“I’ll be fine.”

I keep my breathing steady and my hands steadier. The sharp blade cuts into his skin and his muscles stiffen as he swallows a gasp of pain.

He starts counting the carved lines of runes in the timber frame of the bed and I’m hurtled back to saving ‘Nicostratus’ at the riverbank. I’d told him to count to stay conscious. He had.

It was Quin then. Quin who’d saved me from a wyvern, been poisoned, let me tend him; Quin who I’d curled against inside the violet oak.

Quin, who is under my fingers now.

I make precise incisions and stitch the wounds, and I tell him everything I’m doing so he knows what to expect, so that I can focus on facts and not... I let out a shuddering breath. “Stay a moment; needs to dry before I bandage you to support your rib.”

With an achy chest, I lean in and blow over his salved wounds. He shifts under the sensation, just noticeable enough to make my breath catch. A quiet inhale and a trembling exhale.

His fist curls into the bedmat.

I wish I had magic to heal this instantly. Wish he didn’t have to suffer.

“You’re careful. ”

I hurriedly pull down my veil and help him sit up. “Healers don’t see enemies. We see people who need help.”

His lips press into a tight curve and his eyes grow dark, heavy, glassy.

We’re quiet as I take out long strips of cloth and crouch before him.

“I need to...” I press the end of the fabric to his waist and my fingers brushing his skin trigger a line of goosebumps up his side.

He shuts his eyes as I press the bandage around his ribs.

My hand curves under his arm and I carefully pass it around his back, veil fluttering forward against his chest. Quickly, I thread the bandage around him once more and step away.

Quin reopens his eyes, tries to stand and gives up with a grimace. “Shirt.”

I find him a clean meditation robe. “That’s all there is for now. More will be brought to you.”

He nods, and struggles into the robe. I’ve given him something for the pain, but there’s simply so much of it; with his organs so bruised, I can’t give him more or his liver might fail.

My gaze snags on the flutette. Magic would soothe him without adverse effects. “Music can aid in healing,” I say factually and reach for the small instrument. “You should play something.”

Quin snatches my hand away.

I try to plunge through his hold but his grip tightens around my wrist.

“Don’t. ”

“An instrument is meant to be played, so much more if the music can—”

Quin’s eyes darken, and I jump a little with fright. But it’s not enough to stop me.

I let out a mocking laugh and draw my hand away. “I see.”

A twitching eyebrow.

I swallow a snort and say ponderingly, “Why buy a flutette if you can’t play? Unless... Ah. It was a gift?” I let out a commiserating sigh. “A useless gift, whoever gave it to you.”

He trembles in his outrage, and it has my heart skipping.

“Prove it, then.” I wave a nonchalant hand.

He raises his chin and everything. Oh Quin. At least when it comes to shamelessness, we’re a fitting match.

I can’t help it. I really can’t. I step forward and pinch his chin. “What meaning does your title have here? I’m Prins Lief’s pet healer. Of the two of us,”—my veil brushes past his cheek as I lean in to his ear—“I have more power.”

Quin laughs and hurriedly cuts it off, as if it got away from him. Something smooth and cunning shifts in his expression. He stares at me packing my instruments. “If you have more power, you’ll have no trouble getting Prins Lief to meet with me.”

I pause for a moment, with an admiring smile. How easily he turned this to his own advantage. Truly the Quin I know.

I slip my things into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “ Play every day for three days.” His jaw tightens; so does my hand around the strap of my bag. “Even now you’re hesitating? It’s just music.”

“It’s magic,” he snarls, the words laced with something raw, something broken. “It’s his last.”